


The Drumming Song

by toomuchchampagne



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (because Jon Snow does know one thing), ADWD spoilers, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Loss of Identity, Oral Sex, Queen in the North, R plus L equals J, Wildling Jon (sort of), Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1595315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchchampagne/pseuds/toomuchchampagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s a God, a King, a Killer. And he’s in her bedchamber at night. She should scream and fight, not smile. But then, some women want to be stolen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Drumming Song

**Author's Note:**

> So basically the idea for this was "Jon comes back, but not the same". If at the beginning of TWOW Jon comes back (and gods I hope he does) he will not be the same Jon we know. Here I went from the idea that if he is reborn it will be a bit like UnCat and he will slowly lose his personality and become fixated on one thing (his Night Watch duty : the fight against the Other and protecting people) and I added some of Melisandre's characteristic that seem to come from her use of magic, as well as other mystical stuff that would come from being AA reborn.
> 
> This is the first Jon/Sansa story I've finished but I'm working on other ideas. Some of the stories about them here are really great so I hope you like this one.
> 
> The title comes from an AMAZING song by Florence and the Machine, The Drumming Song.

He comes to steal her when the moon is at its highest and the castle is asleep. He creeps under the cover of darkness like a spider, _silent as a shadow_ , a voicewhispers to him. And even though he doesn’t make a sound as he enters her bedchambers, she wakes instantly.

 

Every time he looks at her there’s this drumming sound inside his head, getting louder and louder, it reminds him of the Free Folks’ music, of the Red Priestess’ chants and of the Song of the Earth. It’s particularly loud tonight, droning out all the rest. Maybe she can hear it too. Maybe that’s what woke her up.

 

He’s been dreaming about her since before they met. With her red hair and blue eyes she’s a ghost that never stops haunting him. She’s a true beauty, this kneeler Queen, nothing like the glamour of the Red Priestess. There’s no illusion about her.

 

That’s why it’s so surprising when her eyes meet his with a serene smile.

 

He’s a God, a King, a Killer. And he’s in her bedchamber at night. She should scream and fight, not smile. But then, some women want to be stolen. Maybe that’s what her gentle and tranquil behaviour toward him meant.

 

He’s not sure though. She’s hard to understand, this one. Not like the Free Folks and the soldiers. She behaves so coldly and properly and yet her voice is soft and warm like honey.

 

He doesn’t listen to the words anymore, not really. He knows so many dead and lost tongues that words hold no meaning for him now. He has other ways to see the truth of men. But he knows that once, only once, she called him _Brother_. It’s not a title anyone else calls him by, and it felt both wrong and familiar. They were alone with the Red Priestess that day, and he’s not sure how he responded but she never called him that again afterwards.

 

“Jon,” she says, and he knows she’s calling him. Is that his name? It has the same taste of another life as Brother had. It’s familiar and it feels right.

 

He moves closer to her bed. He’s never been here before, but the wolf has. Night after night, his animal self stood vigil by her bed and relished in her caresses. Did she know it was him as she welcomed the presence of the white wolf guard? She had a wolf once too, he knows, but it’s long dead.

 

She’s speaking, and the sound is even more delicious than honey. If there’s fear, she’s fighting it well. He can only pick up on a slight alarm, a thrill. She wants him to respond, but he’s not sure what she said. He only knows the melodious notes of her voice, and the gentle intent behind it.

 

“I came here to steal you,” he says, revealing his dagger. His voice is hoarse, unpractised.

 

She’s confused. “Jon,” she says again, and he likes this sound, this word.

 

He puts the dagger under her throat and grabs a fistful of the red hair that has been tormenting him day and night. She doesn’t fight him. She was never a fighter—that was the other one, his little sister lost across the Narrow Sea.

 

Her hair his softer than silk under his grip, and he never wants to let go, but it’s nothing compared to the feeling of her skin against his as her hand covers the one holding the dagger. She’s trying to tell him something, and she needs him to concentrate, but all he can make out of her speech is this word, again. Jon.

 

So he concentrates solely on this word. He’s heard it from time to time since he awoke from the fire, but it has never sounded the way it does coming from her lips. There’s need and pain and love and longing when she says it. It’s a promise and a memory.

 

He’s not sure what that means, so he looks into her eyes to try and see through her heart. He has no need to search, she sends the images directly to him. Children and their father, listening to stories in this very castle. He can see her, already a redheaded beauty, sitting by the fire near a boy that looks just like him. _Jon. That’s you_ , her voice says in every tongue he knows.

 

He’s not sure how she can do this, he thought only the red priestess could. But it’s just the beginning.

 

He can see the same children again, older this time, running around the castle followed by direwolf pups. She’s the only one not running, but she’s happy and carefree in a way his younger self isn’t.

 

They’re saying good-bye on the Kingsroad. The other girl, his sister, the one he dreams about sometimes, is crying. Arya, the voice says. She’s here too. She’s not crying, her eyes are red but he knows those tears were not for him. She’s cold like the Summer Snow softly falling around them, but when he hugs her, she presses him tighter against her.

 

In the next image, her wolf is already dead and various mailed-fists are holding her back as she screams. Then the longsword falls on her father’s neck and the crowd erupts with screams of joy as his head rolls away from his body. She’s on her knees now, and all she sees is hate, red and flaming. He sees the visage of her enemies, her tormentors. She passes quickly on most of them, but she stops on one. He recognizes him as the man who held down her father as they cut off his head. _Janos Slint_ , she says. _I prayed for a hero to come and cut off his head. And you did, Jon._

 

Next is a Snow Castle and a succession of dreams of him and his wolf. Those are good memories, but they’re all ruined by a sickly little boy and a man with a mocking smile and smart green eyes, always watching. _I killed him,_ she says, _I killed them both. And so many more._ She’s reclaiming her birth right, an army of knights behind her. She’s cold and regal as she watches the massacres perpetrated in the name of Stark. Queen in the North, her men chant.

Then he sees himself, as she saw him when he first came to Winterfell. As a hero. He can feel her wish to run up to him, to see him, to touch him, but she refrains and stays poised. “He is not the same man you once knew, your Grace,” the Red Priestess tells her.

 

There is this drumming sound again, getting louder and louder as he approaches. But this time, he knows. It’s the sound of her heart beating, resonating throughout her body, calling for him.

The visions stop, but her heartbeat is still here, loud and powerful and so close, filling the strange void inside him.

 

A veil is lifted and he’s seeing her for the first time.

 

“Sansa,” he says. The S tastes strange on his tongue. It’s too soft a word, it seems grotesque to hear it in his own rough voice. But she doesn’t care. She smiles and he can feel the caress of her hand on his jaw.

 

Her touch is electric. It sings to him, just like her heart.

 

“I’m here, Jon. I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

He understands her words now, but they still don’t make sense. His grip on the dagger has loosened, but he’s still holding it against her throat, so why does it feel like she’s the one with all the power?

 

He’s a God, the freefolks say, revived from the flame, he triumphed over the Great Other. So why does he feel so lost?

 

“Jon?” she asks. “Talk to me.”

 

“I came here to steal you,” he repeats. His voice doesn’t sound so hoarse this time. And saying it again is comforting, it gives him direction.

 

But then she laughs and he’s more lost than ever.

 

“You don’t need to steal me,” she says, “I’m already yours.”

 

He sees himself and Sansa with the red woman under one of the great weirdwood trees. The priestess links their hands but he doesn’t take off his gloves. People are watching—some curious, some in awe—but then people are always watching him. It was just one more meaningless afternoon for him, no battle or white walkers, but now it takes on a whole new meaning.

 

“You just have to take me,” she whispers against his lips.

 

They claim he’s a God, but he reacts to that invitation as any man would. His lips meet hers, hungry and open, and he lets go of the dagger. It probably falls to the ground in a clatter, but all he can hear is the drumming of her heart.

 

He can feel the drumming too, and maybe if he keeps kissing her he will be able to taste it soon. Her whole body is an instrument, a melody drawing him impossibly closer. The more he gets, the more he wants, and it scares him.

 

He’s afraid to hurt her, Sansa. He has never wanted anything, not like that. He’s had dreams and flashes but nothing as real and powerful. But she kisses him and urges him on, and she’s taking off her nightdress so he doesn’t dwell on it for too long.

 

It’s the first time since he was reborn that he has felt alive outside of the battlefield, outside of Ghost’s skin. His body is awake and aware, more intensely than it has ever been, under her soft fingers as she takes off his clothes.

 

When she’s done, she doesn’t blush or shy away from his nakedness. She observes it with a careful intentness and if her cheeks are flushed it’s only with passion and lust. He’s not sure why it’s so flattering to see that she wants him, truly wants him. Everyone wants the Savior of Westeros, the Destroyer of the Great Other, Azor Ahai Reborn.

 

But Sansa wants Jon. She wants the man, and she’s ready to welcome him between her legs. He takes in her beauty. She’s naked, nothing covers her but her long scarlet hair, and vulnerable but most of all she is so so beautiful. All he can see is her soft pale tempting flesh and the cherry invitation of her lips, all he can hear is her pounding heart, and somehow it guides him right where he needs to be. Inside her.

 

She feels warm and wet and perfect—her all body feels perfect against his. She is the only Goddess, and for once he’s the one doing the worshipping. The rhythm of his hips matches that of the drumming sound of her heart, and he kisses and caresses and bites and touches until he can feel it inside his own veins and he thinks they’re both going to explode.

 

She’s saying a lot more senseless things, whispering and shouting, but he finds his name in there, along with a new title. _Husband._

 

Jon’s sure he’s never been called that before, but he likes it, he realizes when they come in unison.

 

///

 

He is reborn once more, in her arms, both as naked as when they came into this world.

 

She smiles and touches his face tenderly and it makes him want to kiss her again. He’s on top of her, and he knows he’s heavy, but instead of rolling away, he rolls them until she’s lying on his chest. He can feel her heartbeat slowing down softly through his bones.

 

He kind of wants to go again, but she looks tired and sleepy so he just holds her as she closes her eyes. He knows he doesn’t sleep like normal people do, doesn’t need to. In fact, there isn’t much he does like normal people do. Except maybe what they just did, but that’s new.

 

She wakes up a few hours later with a smile on her lips. He’s been watching her. The more he watches the more fascinated he grows.

 

“You’re so warm,” she mutters sleepily. “You didn’t use to be so warm.”

 

The fire that birthed him made him so. Maybe it’s unnerving to normal people, this unnatural heat.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

 

“It’s fine,” she yawns, stretching in his arms and getting closer. “I will have to get used to it, that’s all. I’m sure it’s really useful during Winter, though.”

 

It is a strange thought. The two of them married, spending their future together. He’s not sure why it feels so odd.

 

“You are going to share my bedchambers from now on, aren’t you?” she asked as if sensing his hesitation. There’s a hopefulness in her voice that shakes him. He has spent his nights walking the battlement, watching over the Godswood and the wildlings nightly celebrations only rivalled by the Red Priestess’s fires.

 

Night after night he stood vigil, more weirwood tree than man in his watchful silence.

 

“That man, your father, he was my father too, wasn’t he?” he asks instead of answering her question.

 

There’s a sadness, quickly overcomed by a smile.

 

“We used to think so, but he wasn’t. You’re true father died before you were born. My father raised you here in Winterfell with us as if you were his own. Is that why you wouldn’t come before, because you thought I was your sister?”

 

“No,” he says, confused. “I didn’t remember,” he explains, but he’s not sure about what because there’s a lot he doesn’t remember and even more he doesn’t understand, even though he knows the secret of the Earth.

 

“It’s alright,” she says, and she kisses him once more. “We’ll figure it out together,” she promises.

 

It’s the longest conversation he’s had since he came out of the fire unscathed.

 

“I believe you.”

 

“I’m so glad you’re finally talking to me,” she says and sighs as he trails kisses down her throat.

 

He nibbles at her pulse point, where the drumming is at his loudest, before continuing his way down. He lavishes attention on her breasts, making her moan and swear, and he kisses her smooth stomach as instincts continues to guide his southbound mouth. The hair between her legs matches the red tresses cascading down her back, and beneath it is what his heart desires.

 

He kisses her there. He tastes her, licks and nibbles, and too soon her hands are fisting his curls and she’s screaming and urging him on and coming apart under his expert mouth.

He’s never felt more powerful.

 

They don’t have much time left until the sun comes up, but they make the most of it as she demonstrates her gratefulness.

 

///

 

The next night, he comes to her bed again. She’s awake and waiting this time. That’s when he realizes that she truly is his.

 

Her embrace is already familiar and it feels so right.

 

When they come together, he calls her by her proper title for the first time. _Wife._

 

 

FIN


End file.
